


i'd like to be my old self again (but i'm still trying to find it)

by bellabeatrice



Series: All Too Well [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Ballet, Dancer Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 10:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellabeatrice/pseuds/bellabeatrice
Summary: That’s all dancing is, after all. It’s easier than breathing, yet the hardest thing he has ever done.Harley starts the music, and all Peter has to do is breathe. He’s lifting up and sinking down and running and twirling around, and a minute into the piece, he’s forgotten about the pain in his ankle, about the misery that weighs him down. He almost forgets about Harley, but it’s hard to ignore his gaze, burning bright trails against Peter’s skin.Peter faces the mirror in a lull in the music, stares wild-eyed at his own reflection, battered, bruised, broken, and beautiful. Harley said that when he dances he turns into an angel, and Peter sees it now, the otherworldly glow that dancing gives him.5 Times Peter Parker Dances for Someone Else and 1 Time He Dances for Himself
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Series: All Too Well [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831873
Comments: 31
Kudos: 217





	i'd like to be my old self again (but i'm still trying to find it)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is my heart and soul. The dance world is cruel and competitive, and in hard times, I often have to remind myself why I do it. Yes, I dance to make my parents proud, or my friends proud, or my significant other proud. Sometimes, it is the thought of other people’s expectations that gives me the motivation to push on. However, at the end of the day, I am dancing for myself because it is what I love. I thoroughly enjoyed pouring my soul into this piece, which is incredibly self-indulgent and perhaps too much of a self-projection. However, I hope you can enjoy this story too.

**O N E**

They tell him dancing is in his blood. They say it in high-pitched voices with a smile and a pat on the back, like they can give him talent and technique by patting it into his body and pushing him into a studio with a dozen girls and three other boys who already know that plie means “bent.” The next day at school, Peter trips and falls, skinning his knee. The teacher and his classmates crowd around him, asking if he’s okay, but he’s too busy examining the red liquid gushing out of the scrapes to answer.

“What do you mean when you say ‘dancing is in my blood?’” Peter asks May and Ben on the way home from school. “I thought it would look like pink and glitter, but my blood’s just red. I checked.”

Through the rearview mirror, Peter watches his aunt and uncle smile. “Not literally,” Ben tells him, turning around to pat his knee. “Your mom was a dancer. She was an amazing dancer, Peter. Your mom was planning on enrolling you in classes when you reached this age, and we thought you might want to try it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll become a star like your mom one day. You might be even better.”

“What if I’m not good at dancing at all?” Peter asks, looking up into Ben’s eyes with more fear and insecurity than a child his age should be able to feel. “What if I’m not like my mom?”

“You’re only six. You’ll get there.” Ben smiles at him, full of warmth and hope, and for a moment, Peter lets himself believe that he can dance, that one day he’ll be a star. One day, he promises himself, he’ll make his mom proud.

At class later that day, his hope crumbles into pieces like sand from the playground that’s just not wet enough to be molded into something useful, something beautiful. He can’t make his legs do that move, can’t move his head and his arms in a circle at the same time, can’t keep his back straight at all. He’s so close to quitting, to going home and telling May and Ben, “I don’t think I want to do it anymore,” but they pick him up after class, and while May orders dinner, Ben shows him a video of his mom dancing the final pas de deux from Manon.

She’s beautiful.

Week after week, Peter goes back to class, and he tries to make his body move like the dancers in the video, like his mom, who used to dance with an otherworldly grace. Peter’s still not sure he has an ounce of that grace in his blood, despite the constant assurances that he’ll get there one day, but he tries anyway. He points his feet and holds his head up high. He smiles as he dances until the teacher begins to compliment him for his stage presence as well as his technique. 

Peter is six years old when he performs onstage for the first time. The music ends, and the crowd politely claps, and somewhere out there, May and Ben are sitting, probably wiping away each other’s tears. Peter takes his classmates’ hands as they bow, and as they come up, Peter squints at the bright spotlight. If he stares long enough, he can pretend it’s his mom, watching him dance.

_This is for you_ , he thinks. _I can’t dance, but I’ll dance for you._

**T W O**

The day after Ben’s funeral is sunny, like the world is healing and mocking Peter for his inability to stop hurting. 

There’s a knock on Peter’s door, and he hastily shoves the scissors scraps of fabric in his closet as he goes to open it. May, her red-rimmed eyes magnified by her glasses, stares at Peter’s face like all she wants to do is hold him close. It’s suffocating. It’s comforting. It’s painful. It’s sad. “Are you going back to dance today?”

Peter shrugs. He hasn’t gone to the studio since Ben died, but it’s been a little over a week, and people are going to expect him back, especially with their performance a month away. “I don’t know.”

“You should,” May says with a strained smile. “He’d want you to.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Peter whispers, voice hoarse from unforgotten tears. “Not without him.”

It’s true. Peter doesn’t know how he’s supposed to continue dancing without Ben, who helped Peter sew all of his costumes, who drove Peter to the studio every day, who volunteered to help tech all of the shows, who took countless photos and videos from backstage, who cried every time he saw his nephew perform, who believed in Peter, even - or especially - when Peter didn’t believe in himself.

May breathes in, sharp and full of pain, and she reaches out, folds Peter into her arms and whispers in his ear, “You can. You have to.”

As it turns out, Peter can’t. He walks into the studio and sets his bag down, only to realize that he left his ballet shoes at home, so he walks right out and blinks back tears at the thought that Ben would have come running after him with his shoes in hand seconds after he left the house.

May is waiting when he gets home, curled up on the sofa in Ben’s favorite blanket. She takes one look at his face, wind-bitten and scrunched up from his efforts not to cry, and she calls in sick to work and makes him macaroni from a box.

“Do you think he’d be disappointed in me?” Peter asks, mouth full of macaroni. 

May clicks her tongue, softly chiding. “I think he’d be proud of you. I think you’ll make him proud.”

“He always believed in me. I can’t even believe in myself, but he always did.”

“I believe in you.” Peter looks up from his empty bowl and catches May wiping away her tears, the heartbreak on her face so raw, so overwhelming that he forgets how to breathe for a moment. “You just keep dancing, baby. I’ll believe in you enough for the three of us.” 

Peter goes to dance the next day, and his muscles, reborn with spider DNA, still remember how to dance, even if his foggy, grief-stricken brain cannot. For the first time, Peter lets himself coast through class on autopilot, lets his body take over while his brain crumbles, and somehow, by the end of class, he’s built his brain back up again.

His soul was still shattered, shards of it scattered to the winds like ashes from an overturned urn, but that was a problem for another day.

By the time the show rolls around, Peter has collected nearly all the pieces of his soul. Some of him is lost forever, left behind in a time before the spider bite, the time before Ben’s death, but he’s somewhat whole again, whole enough to dance off autopilot, to dance with a semblance of emotion and depth. His body processes the emotions that his brain can’t.

The last piece in the show - a contemporary showcase of student-choreographed pieces - is one that Peter worked on himself, along with the senior boy who taught him how to do a la seconde turns. The dance ends with Peter falling off stage as the lights turn black. The music builds, and dancers leap across the stage in time to the flickering lights, and Peter runs, sprints to the edge of the stage, holds out his arms, and when the music suddenly fades, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and falls backwards.

A strong pair of arms catches him before he hits the ground. The audience is still and silent, and the theater is dark, and in the few seconds after the dance ends when the world comes to a stop, Peter thinks Ben is back, here to catch him as he always promised he would.

Then the audience begins clapping, a standing ovation that ripples through the crowd, and Peter has to open his eyes and thank the tech guy who caught him, the guy that would have been Ben if Ben had still been alive. Peter boosts himself back onstage to bow, and as he turns to face the audience, he catches sight of May in the second row, clapping furiously with tears streaming down her face.

_He would be so proud of you_ , she mouths, half-whispering the words, and Peter’s super-hearing picks up the sound.

_I know_ , he mouths back, not caring if the director will call him unprofessional. _I know he would_.

He’s doing it for Ben, after all. He’s dancing for Ben and for May, for believing in him and challenging him to never stop dancing, even when the memories and legacies in it are too much to bear.

**T H R E E**

Peter should have known better to try to hide something from Tony Stark. If the man had been able to find out he was Spider-Man, his best kept secret of all time, then of course he’d find out about Peter’s senior recital.

“I should have known you’re a dancer,” Tony told him, draping an arm around his shoulders as they walked. “I thought those flips and that agility came from the spider DNA, but I guess you’ve got your own DNA to account for that. Mary Parker is your mother, am I correct?”

“Principal dancer of New York City Ballet at only twenty-one years old,” Peter said with a smile. Since first hearing of his mother’s career as a dancer, he’s done his research, and he’s proud of being part of her legacy. “Did you know her?”

“Not personally, but I’ve seen her perform as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was drunk at the time, probably, or maybe high on something, but I remember parts of it vividly. She was a beautiful dancer, your mother. I think watching her when I was in my early thirties was part of the reason why I love ballets and dance now. It just manifested itself twenty years later.”

Peter wants to ask more about his mom, wants to listen to Tony talk about her forever, but the man ushers him through a door, and he’s inside a glittering studio with barres lining the walls and mirrors stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Skylights bathe the room in bright morning light, shining on a sleek sound system that Peter instantly recognizes as Stark tech.

“What’s this?” Peter asks, stepping out of his shoes to reverently slide across the marley panels in his socks. “Is this for me?”

“Technically it’s Natasha’s. I had it built for her when we built the Compound. Barnes uses it too sometimes, which shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did the first time FRIDAY told me he was here. But yes, it’s for you too.”

“Why?” Peter turns to face Tony with a wide-eyed stare. 

Behind his tinted glasses, Tony blinks slowly, fishing for words in a way that makes Peter nervous with anticipation. “I want you to feel included here. I know you don’t live here, but this is your space too, regardless of whether or not you choose to use it. Your studio is fiercely competitive, and when I last spoke with the director, private studio time was fully booked. This is yours to use if you want to practice a little extra or if you just want a space to dance in. I was also thinking you could talk to Natasha or Barnes if you really want to. They’d probably be interested in teaching you a few things about dance, both in the studio and out fighting on the streets.”

Peter’s overwhelmed by the thought Tony put into this, even though the man plays it off with an air of nonchalance. However, the subtle undertone of heavy expectations weighs him down, and he does his best not to panic in front of his mentor. “Thank you, Mr. Stark, but you really didn’t have to.”

“I know. I don’t do things because I have to. I do them because I want to,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth curled up in an affectionate smirk. 

“Thanks,” Peter whispers again, feeling small and scared and stressed for no reason at all. He’s never been very good at receiving gifts, never been very good at receiving expectations. “Thank you so much.”

Tony just hums and flashes him a smile. “You’re welcome, kid. You want to stay here for a little bit? If not, I can have Happy drive you back and you can catch your afternoon rehearsals.”

“I think I’ll stay here, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure thing. Team dinner is at five. Don’t be late.” Tony closed the door behind him as he left, and in the grandeur of a studio, his very own studio for the rest of the day, for as long as he wanted, Peter lets out a slow, shaky breath.

An hour later, after changing into tights and his warm-ups and doing a quick barre, he’s working on choreographing his senior solo. Something Old and Something New, he calls it, writing out counts in quick strokes as he marks his thoughts on the floor with his feet. There’s a video of his mother in NYCB’s studio, working on a piece set to the same music Peter chose, a piece she never got to debut because she fell in love and got married and had a child, and by the time she was able to return to dancing, she had already forgotten about the piece. 

Peter, however, picks up where she left off. He’s adapted the pointe work and made it more contemporary, filled in the gaps of choreo the video doesn’t show, and now he has this piece that’s mostly his, but there’s something about it that’s also not his own, a part of his dancing that never really belonged to him anyway. 

Every other weekend, Peter begins spending nights at the Compound, having Happy drive him straight over Saturday after rehearsal ends and driving back late Sunday morning to get to the city in time for Sunday afternoon rehearsals. Even though he’s exhausted, he works hard on these weekends, training and choreographing and working on his technique late at night and early in the morning. He takes up Tony’s offer and asks Natasha for help, who ropes Bucky into the deal, despite Peter being too scared to ask. Some days, they’ll help him refine his art, give corrections on his classical technique, and offer opinions about his choreography. Other days, they’ll train him, teach him to use his body and his art as a weapon. 

As a result of spending more time at the Compound, Peter meets the rest of the team and gets to know them. Among the new faces is a boy Peter’s age named Harley Keener, who dropped out of high school when they wouldn’t let him graduate early and drove up to New York, calling in a favor with Tony Stark. He’s a genius, Peter discovers, but not in the naturally gifted way that he seems at first. He works hard, harder than anyone Peter had ever met before, and he loves what he does. He lets Peter talk about anything, about the latest high school gossip, about chemistry and thermodynamics, about dance. Anytime Peter is at the Compound and he’s not in the studio, he’s with Harley, either hanging out or working in the labs. 

“Do you like him?” Tony asks one day as Peter warms up in the studio. Sometimes Tony asks to sit with his work in the studio while Peter dances, and sometimes Peter lets him. 

“I don’t know,” Peter says in between sautes. “If I think about it too much, I get anxious, so I just stopped thinking about it at all. With him, I don’t have to think anyway. I just get to be, you know? It’s sort of like dancing. I just get to be and do what feels right.”

Tony hums knowingly, and Peter fights the urge to blush. He’s pretty sure he fails by the way Tony looks at him over the edge of his glasses. “That’s how Pepper makes me feel,” he says, and he leaves it at that, the seeds of implications left hanging unsaid in the air.

Peter swats at them as he presses play, and by the time the song ends, the seeds have mostly dispersed, but some of them have taken root in his heart, and Peter has no choice but to let them grow.

All of Peter’s extra training at the Compound has made him an excellent dancer. He’s no match for the natural talent at the studio, but his hard work has paid off, and he’s rising in the ranks, slowly but surely. 

It’s also made him a better fighter out on the streets, just as Tony had said. He could dance circles around Big Man and his men, and he had defeated Kingpin single-handedly with tricks he learned from Natasha and Bucky. 

One night, about a month before his senior recital, a month before he graduates high school, Peter goes out on patrol in the precious two hours between school and dance. He’s exhausted, burned-out, and he’s close to calling it quits after thirty minutes, but when Karen alerts him of Kraven the Hunter’s presence in Central Park, Flushing Meadows, Peter swings his ass there with little more than a sigh.

“Spider-Man,” the villain greets, but Peter’s not there to banter with his words. Instead, he banters with his body, dancing past charges and blows and landing a few of his own. He falters once when Kraven pulls out a blowgun, and it’s his own demise because seconds later, he feels the poisonous dart find a home in his thigh. 

But Peter’s used to fighting through pain, through injuries. He once sprained his ankle during an adagio and had to dance through his subsequent variation on the ankle. It was relatively healed by the end of the coda, but he knows the feeling of pain, knows how to fight through it and do what needs to be done, knows how to do it with art.

He wishes he could say defeating Kraven was as easy as plie, but it’s more like petite allegro, seemingly quick and seemingly easy but surprisingly hard and requiring more energy and control than any sane person should have at that point in a class. It hardly matters. The fight lasts no more than half an hour, by which time Kraven is webbed up in a Queens Zoo enclosure and Peter is at last felled by the poison in his blood.

Tony finally arrives, flying in with an urgency that makes Peter laugh because it’s a little too late, but he’s grateful for the help that Karen apparently called because his vision is going fuzzy.

“You did good, kid,” Tony says, and the way it makes Peter go warm feels like an antidote in its own right.

“Did it for you,” he mumbles into Tony’s shoulder. “I danced it for you.”

Peter awakes hours later to the sound of a door opening. Tony and May walk in as he slowly becomes more aware of his surroundings. He’s in a hospital bed in the medical ward of the Compound, and there’s a warm pressure on his hand.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Harley says, squeezing his hand lightly. “Guess you don’t need a true love’s kiss to wake you up after all.”

“It wouldn’t go amiss,” Peter snarks back, and even though it doesn’t actually earn him a kiss from the other boy, he gets a laugh, so he calls it a win in his book.

**F O U R**

“The whole point of college is to try new things,” Ned tells Peter, dragging him through the door of whoever’s house the party of the night is being held. The two of them are in their freshman year together at NYU, inseparable to the very end. Besides, with Peter’s whole Spider-Man thing, Ned was the logical choice for a roommate. “Yeah, we’re not really party people, but we could be, right?”

“I don’t know, Ned. I’ve got, you know, spidery things to do tonight, and I have a super important lab write-up due Monday,” Peter replies, but the point is probably moot because he’s already dressed up and there, so he might as well stay. Ned must realize that too because he grins at Peter and hands him a beer.

“Even superheroes need a break. Come on, Peter. Live a little, okay? Partying is self-care.” The notion is so ridiculous it makes even Ned laugh, but as always, Peter’s best friend is able to lift his spirits and make him feel more comfortable in a situation that’s anything but comfortable.

By the time Peter has had his seventh beer, his spider metabolism finally gives in, and he feels drunk enough not to care. Ned ditched him for a group of kids in his computer science class, and they’re doing shots by the bar. Peter’s dancing with a few girls from his composition class, cheering with them when the music changes to a remix of a song they improvved to last week.

“You can really dance,” someone tells him, voice low and far too close to his ear. Peter whips around, ready to tell some creep to back off, but he’s blown away by windswept, blond curls and a glimmering smile.

_His eyes are the wrong color_ , he thinks, and he immediately hates himself for the thought. Harley is probably batting his deep green eyes at his latest hook-up, whose name is Eugene, and Peter shudders at the thought that it might be Eugene Thompson. 

“Thanks,” Peter says, staring into steel grey eyes instead. “I’m a dance major, so it’s kind of my thing.”

The not-Harley stranger laughs, and he smiles at Peter in a way that makes him feel appreciated in a way he hasn’t felt in months, maybe years. “So will you dance for me?”

“Only if you dance with me too.” Not-Harley lets Peter drape his arms around his neck as they swayed to the music, some early 2000’s pop song with dirty lyrics and a dirtier beat. 

Not-Harley dances even dirtier, and after one song, Peter is more than uncomfortable and ready to deck the guy and leave, but then he offers Peter a drink, and it’s strong and smells good, so Peter drinks it and lets the guy lead him out to the dance floor again. It takes two more drinks for Peter to start dancing back, to lose himself in the rhythm and the feel of human contact, no matter how dubious it may be.

Then the guy kisses Peter, slams his mouth against his in a sloppy move that makes Peter moan anyway because he’s riled up on touch and taste and alcohol. “Harley,” he murmurs into the kiss, barely registering the guy pull away. “Harley, please.”

“I’m not Harley,” the guy says, and Peter’s eyes snap open, the world rushing back to him in overwhelming waves. “My name is Hayes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbles, and although his voice is soft, he feels like screaming. 

The guy, Hayes, just smiles at him with a look disguised as kindness as he says, “It’s okay. If you dance like that, I’ll let you call me any name you want in bed.”

In an instant, Peter feels shame and guilt crawl over his skin like bacteria, like parasites come to leech away all the good things in him, if there’s anything left. “I should go.”

“I don’t think you should,” Hayes says, tightening his grip on Peter’s waist, and in a flash of panic, Peter rips himself away with a bit of his super strength, tipping Hayes to the floor. 

“Sorry,” he says half-heartedly. It’s all he can manage before the urge to sprint out of the party overtakes him, and it’s only when he’s in the cool night hair that he breathes, a deep shuddering exhale that leaves him feeling empty. 

_Is this what dance is for?_ he asks, looking up to the sky and spinning in slow circles. He knows it’s not. He knows dance is an art form, not some party trick to get into people’s pants, but Hayes’ cologne lingers on his skin, whispering that he’s nothing more than an object programmed for people’s pleasure. 

_Will you dance for me?_ say the demons in his head. _Is dance really as sacred as you think, or will you dance for anyone who asks?_

_Not just anyone_ , he tells himself. _Just my parents and my aunt and uncle and family of superheroes I’ve somehow found. Just for my classmates and my teachers and boys in clubs who look like Harley Keener and smile at me like I mean something to them._

**F I V E**

A scream rips unbidden from Peter’s throat as he hits the ground. They always say that beauty is pain, but he’s feeling decidedly unpretty as he cradles his sprained ankle, weak from years of never letting it heal properly, ever since that first pas de deux. Admittedly, it doesn’t hurt that bad. His body is already working on stitching itself back together again, but it feels good to scream, so he does it again, letting it taper off into a dry sob. The tears he needs to cry never come, and he wonders if he’s broken or just accustomed to this feeling. 

The door to the studio in the Compound slams open, and in runs a sleep-rumpled Harley Keener, wide-eyed in confusion of the sight of Peter on the ground. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Peter grits out, sitting up. “Just panicked when I fell, that’s all. Did I wake you up? Did I wake anyone else up?”

“Just me, I think,” Harley says softly, slipping on the marley in his woolen socks to fall gracefully to the floor beside Peter. “And I was already awake.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers. 

Harley’s gaze turns sharp. “For what? Falling?”

_Yes_ , Peter thinks, fighting a sarcastic grin. _Sorry for falling in love with you._ “No. Yes? Sort of. I’m feeling kind of like a failure tonight. And every night, really, but that’s trauma we don’t have time to unpack right now.”

“It’s only one a.m.,” Harley says. “We have all the time in the world, if you want it.”

Peter, who knows how short life truly is, wants to take Harley’s offer, to cherish his promise of more time, of all the time in the world, but he’s tired and in pain, and he can hardly form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Another day,” he says. “When it’s actually daytime, not some stupid hour of the night.”

Harley laughs, soft and sweet and reverberating around the room. Peter melts at the sound. He wants to dance to it, almost gets up and does. “What were you working on anyway? It’s winter break.”

“The latest piece for my composition class. It’s due when right after break because we have a showcase coming up.”

“Send me the dates. I love watching you dance,” Harley says, and the words make Peter sad rather than happy, and he doesn’t know why.

“I don’t know why you do. I mean, _I_ don’t even like watching myself dance.” 

Harley’s quiet for a moment, and Peter wishes he could take the words back. “I wish I could show you what you look like. You’re normally a swan, or some old cliche of grace, but when you dance? You turn into an angel. It’s breathtaking.”

Peter’s breath hitches, feels the warm glow of praise flow through his veins and lighten his heart. “Oh, Harley,” he says, and all the words he wishes he could say hang in the air. He’s never been very good at saying what he really means with words, fickle and fleeting. Dance, on the other hand, is emotional and eternal, and it’s his way of saying without speaking, of conveying the emotions that linger in his heart.

Harley cups his face in his hands, frozen fingertips leaving burning trails of warmth in their path as they trace along his lips. “Try again,” Harley asks, though it feels more like a command. “For me?”

Peter has never been able to deny Harley. With surprisingly stable legs, despite a swollen ankle, he stands, limps to the center of the room, and breathes.

That’s all dancing is, after all. It’s easier than breathing, yet the hardest thing he has ever done.

Harley starts the music, and all Peter has to do is breathe. He’s lifting up and sinking down and running and twirling around, and a minute into the piece, he’s forgotten about the pain in his ankle, about the misery that weighs him down. He almost forgets about Harley, but it’s hard to ignore his gaze, burning bright trails against Peter’s skin. 

Peter faces the mirror in a lull in the music, stares wild-eyed at his own reflection, battered, bruised, broken, and beautiful. Harley said that when he dances he turns into an angel, and Peter sees it now, the otherworldly glow that dancing gives him.

Then the music pushes on, pressing him forward and he falls on his knees, the counts of floorwork giving him an opportunity to center himself again before he stands, preps, and turns, spiralling his leg up in the air and down again.

He’s about to fouette into the second set of pirouettes, but on the plie, he catches Harley’s gaze, burning brighter than Peter has ever seen it before. He stumbles, his weak ankle gives out, something cracks, and he falls again to the floor, staring up at the ceiling, defeated.

“Do you still think I dance like an angel?” he asks, feeling Harley kneel next to him.

“The most beautiful angel of them all.” Harley places tender hands on his leg, carefully probing and watching Peter’s reactions. “I think your ankles broken.”

“You’re probably right.” For some reason, he begins crying, quiet sobs of vulnerability, which hurts more than the physical pain. “Do you mind leaving me alone?”

Harley falters. “You need help.”

“FRIDAY will call someone, but I need a moment alone. Please?” Peter looks up at Harley, reaches out a trembling hand to caress the other boy’s face.

At Peter’s touch, Harley concedes. “Okay,” he murmurs, getting to his feet. “I mean it, you know. Every word I said.”

“I know,” Peter replies, and he does. Some people are hard to read, but Harley’s truth is written all over his face. “Maybe one day I’ll believe it.”

“One day,” Harley echoes. “I’ll see you around, Peter.”

Peter says nothing, merely giving the boy a weak smile. Harley flashes one back before finally leaving, letting the door hiss shut behind him.

Alone in the studio, Peter breathes easier, but at the same time feels the oppressive weight of some grief settle on his shoulders. Remorse, regret, guilt, goodbyes: they all pile on him, pinning him under their burden.

Farewell. It feels like a farewell.

**\+ O N E**

In many ways, it was a farewell. It’s been a year since the incident in the Compound’s studio when Peter broke his ankle. It’s been a year since Peter has talked to Harley any more than bland small talk at team dinners and the one time they ran into each other in the hallways of one of Tony’s charity galas. Peter doesn’t remember much about it, couldn’t say what they talked about, but he remembers the heartbreak that flashed across Harley’s face when he first laid eyes on him.

It’s been a year since Peter last danced. 

At first, he took time off to heal, partly because a broken ankle healing in less than a week would look extremely suspicious, but also partly because he did need to heal, emotionally as well as physically. A two-month-long break turned into a six-month-long break, and when Peter returned to NYU for his sophomore year, he changed his major. 

There’s more to his year-long sabbatical from dance than an injury. There’s a history of doubt, of self-loathing, of feeling like dance was simultaneously what he was meant to do and what he wasn’t born to do. There’s a history of dancing for other people instead of dancing for himself, and the moment he decided to do something for himself, he stopped dancing. For Peter, having danced nearly his entire life, not dancing feels like he’s missing a piece of himself, a piece of himself he’s been trying to grow back with limited success.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to dance again. He doesn’t even know if he wants to dance again.

It’s winter in New York City. It’s cold and windy and snowing and cruel, but Peter finds himself walking through Times Square because he’s tired and numb and thinks that maybe if he stands in the brutally cold air in the middle of a crowd, he might feel a little less alone, a little less dead, might feel a little something at all.

Something at all comes in the form of a piano and a voice and hazy memories of a childhood spent dancing in his bedroom with the CD player on full volume. Peter walks through the crowds until he finds the source, a girl his age playing a keyboard and singing gently into a microphone as people passing by drop spare change in the cup on top of the keyboard. As people jostle him in their haste to keep up with the pace of the world turning, closes his eyes, Peter stands still, closes his eyes, and listens.

And then he begins to dance.

In his jeans and boots and knitted beanie, jacket and scarf discarded on the dirty city street, he dances. His body remembers what his mind wants to forget, so he lets himself move to sweet, sad chords and the voice of a girl who smiles at him once in between the chorus and the second verse. She knows what it feels like to fall out of love, out of love with yourself. She hopes he will fall back in love.

When the song ends, the small crowd that formed around them claps. The singer stands and takes Peter’s hand, her cold hand frigid enough to be felt through Peter’s glove. He squeezes it tightly as they bow, laughing and breathless, and Peter’s trying not to cry because the tears will freeze to his face.

The crowd disperses when they straighten up and the girl goes back to her piano with one last smile at Peter. One person remains, the bundle of Peter’s discarded clothing tucked under his arm as he claps a few more times. Peter watches him as lifetimes of repressed memories and emotions flood him, and when Harley catches his eye and smiles, that same smile Peter fell in love with in every lifetime before and will continue to love in every lifetime after, it’s impossible not to cry.

A familiar warmth envelopes Peter, as he sobs, and dimly he registers Harley’s own tears falling into his hair. “Harley,” he says. “Harley, it’s you.”

“It’s me.” Harley pulls back and cups Peter’s wind-bitten face in his warm, gloved hands. “And Peter, it’s you.”

There’s a story behind those words. It’s a story of a boy who loved to dance, who danced for others because it filled the holes in their hearts but ripped his own heart to shreds. It’s the story of a boy who, on a windy winter day danced in the middle of Times Square, who stitched together the remaining pieces of his heart with the chords of a forgotten song, who spun silk patches to fill in the gaps with the language of a forgotten art.

It’s a story that doesn’t end with a happy ending but a hopeful one because there, that day, with the wind and Harley’s arms encircling him, that boy was reborn.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “All Too Well” by Taylor Swift. This is the song I imagine Peter dancing to in the +1 section. Catch me on Tumblr: @parknerplease


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